My Immortal
by banjkazfan
Summary: After the death of his immortal, Garth Algar is left to grapple with the shadows of the past. -Wayne's World-


_**T**__his originally started out completely differently. One minor idea plus two really angsty songs can really screw with your head._

_Originally, I posted this a year ago. And a week after posting it, my friend Bryce killed himself._

_I took it down…I'm not exactly sure why I did, but I decided that in his honour, I would repost this. I feel that taking it down—and not being honest with how he died, or making it wishy-washy—is like pretending that suicide doesn't exist, which is sort of a disgrace to his memory._

_I really don't know if this is a tribute or what. I wrote it before he died, but I'm reposting it in his honour. Just so the world knows that suicide is out there._

* * *

**T**hings…things have just been different lately.

I guess I should be over it, but I don't think I'll ever be able to completely erase the pain from Wayne Campbell's death.

Did it hurt him?

That's something I've asked myself nearly every day for ten years. _Did it hurt him?_

I guess he kind of intended for it to "hurt" him…not exactly _hurt_ him, but apparently he wanted it to kill him.

And it did.

* * *

I can remember in vivid detail where I was that day. I was at Stan Mikita's Donuts, and it was the day I had made Mr. Donut Man and was stabbing him with the little mini-hockey stick.

I had just had an argument with Wayne the night before, and I guess I was still kinda mad about it. I sort of thought that maybe he'd come through the door and sit down and tell me that he was sorry, and we'd still be buds.

Maybe that was why I hadn't called him the night before.

I don't really want to admit to the fact that I was looking for him, because I didn't want to show weakness. Every time the door opened, I would jump and glance backwards over my shoulder to see if it was Wayne coming into Stan Mikita's with his typical, cheerful grin.

It never was.

I think this happened maybe six or seven times before I finally stopped paying attention. Absently I kept stabbing Mr. Donut Man, when I suddenly froze as I felt a hand on my shoulder.

_Wayne?_ I thought, turning around.

But, it wasn't my best friend that was facing me, it was Officer Koharski. He had a grim look on his face and immediately my mind was racing as my stomach lurched. Was it the music? Had someone finally gotten sick of listening to Bohemian Rhapsody as we drove around on the weekends and called the cops…?

"Garth," he said to me in a low voice. "I…I have some very…very bad news for you."

* * *

This is the moment that comes to mind when people first asked me if I somehow "knew" that Wayne had killed himself. I suppose that everyone thinks since we were so close, that somehow I knew even before Officer Koharski told me. Maybe in some way, when Wayne didn't come into Stan Mikita's like he normally did after we fought and before we made up again, I knew. I didn't know that he'd gone and shot himself. But I knew something was wrong.

His parents told me that it was quick. That he didn't feel any pain. Well, his father told me the no pain part. His mother was crying too hard to talk to anybody.

But they're both lying bastards. If he didn't feel any pain, then why the hell did he do it?

And why wasn't I there? Why had I taken it so personally when he called me a gimp? Why hadn't I called him afterwards? If I had just known…I could've gone to his house and stopped him.

And even if I couldn't have stopped him…I could've at least been there for him. Maybe just my being there would've changed something. Maybe he would've changed his mind.

And even if he was still set on it…at least then I could've been there to hold his hand and cry for him after he died.

Guess I should backtrack to that night, huh?

It was two in the morning when I finally went home from the outskirts of the airport. We had just argued, and I was still furious. But for a moment, for some reason, I almost called him then, to see if he was still mad at me.

But there was a message on the answering machine. Mom and Dad were both out that night, so I didn't worry about listening to the message—I wasn't worried that I'd wake them. I pressed the play button.

_"Hey, Garth…it's Wayne. I just called to say—"_

I angrily jabbed the stop button before he could finish his sentence. I was still too angry to listen to him.

Why hadn't I just listened to the whole message?

* * *

Cassandra was there the day of the funeral. She looked…different. Older. Sadder. Like she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

I carefully walked over to her and put my arms around her. She gripped my jacket tightly and held onto me as tears ran down her face.

"Oh, Garth," she whispered. "It's all my fault he's dead…I told him to leave the loft because he was so jealous of Benjamin…I just couldn't…couldn't see—I couldn't see how much he was hurting…"

Cassandra had her arms wrapped around me and was crying into my shoulder, so she couldn't see me avert my eyes. Again with the 'whys': Why hadn't I seen it either?

Why had I tried to rub it in his face? Why had I told him that Benjamin was going for Cassandra?

* * *

"_Okay, pop quiz. Cassandra is not interested in Benjamin because... A: Chicks think he's handsome, B: has cool car, C: has lots of cash, D: has no visible scars, E: __does not live with parents_

"_Okay, how about, F: you're a gimp! You know what you can do with your pop quiz?!"_

"_Well, you know what you can do with your show?! You can take it and..." As I continued on my nasty rage and the jet flew over our heads, Wayne's expression changed from blank, to disgusted, to shocked…and then back to disgusted. "…till the handle breaks off and you have to get a doctor to pull it out again!"_

…and that was basically where we had parted.

* * *

To this day, I still cringe at thinking about how angry I was at him, and the nasty things I had said. But I really was expecting him to come into Stan Mikita's that day…sit down next to me, tell me he was sorry for being such an asshole, and ask if we were still buds…then I'd say we were, and it would all be okay.

I guess I hadn't really expected him to, y'know. Kill himself.

I may sound like I don't care much about it by the way I just sort of casually mention it to you, but I really do. I've just gotten used to people asking me about him, and to having to tell the story.

I have a tendency to leave out the events at the outskirts of the airport from that night, though.

* * *

_How did he even shoot himself, anyway?_ I wondered. He didn't even own a gun, as he told his ex-girlfriend, Stacy, when she had given him that gun rack.

_Did he buy one? Did he steal it?_

I was almost afraid to know.

* * *

I avoided staying at Wayne's house for too long that day. Everyone had come back there after the funeral—mostly friends of Wayne's, and there were a few people I knew—but nobody really talked. It was almost like we were all expecting and waiting for Wayne to leap out of nowhere with his brand-new guitar—a '64 Fender Stratocaster in classic white with triple single coil pickups and a whammy bar—and yell "Party on, Garth!" I would yell back to him, "Party on, Wayne!" and he would play his "Wayne's World" riff on the guitar.

I noticed how everyone was staying far away from the basement where we used to film Wayne's World.

…strange. Everyone used to think I resented not having my name in the title, but truthfully I was fine with it. It was Wayne's ideas, Wayne's house, Wayne's basement, for that matter, and his show. I really don't like pressure, so it was okay with me to not have my name in the title.

I knew that, sooner or later, I'd have to go down there. I knew that I wasn't going to want to, but it was necessary.

Why? To settle a doubt in my own mind? To brand an image into my mind that would torture me for the rest of my life?

* * *

It looked the same as ever down in the basement, but it smelled different. Kind of…musty. I know it sounds cliché, but it smelled like…death.

I could tell exactly where it was that Wayne shot himself. He was sitting on his couch, right where he always used to sit. There wasn't any blood or anything like that that made me think that's where he had been sitting. I just knew.

Sometimes I just know things.

I was just about to go back upstairs, but something caught my eye. Wedged into the crack of the couch was an envelope—actually, two.

After extracting the envelopes from the couch, I glanced at them both. One had my name on the front in Wayne's handwriting. The other had Cassandra's name on it.

I decided to read mine downstairs, away from the mourners' prying eyes. It wasn't any of their business what my best friend had written to me.

* * *

_Garth,_

_Dude, you seriously need to start answering your phone! It was such a thrill to talk to your answering machine—NOT!_

_Alright, I'm sorry…I guess I really shouldn't be joking around at a time like this, should I? Not considering what I'm about to do._

_So you managed to find the letters, hmm? Excellent. Now, do me a favour. Sit on the couch where you used to sit when we did Wayne's World together._

* * *

I looked at the letter strangely, and then glanced at where Wayne had once sat, as if expecting him to be giving me his typical smug look…the look he gave me when he knew something I didn't. I swear for one second, I could see him. Like, in the flesh—alive. I shook it off, sat on the couch, and kept reading.

* * *

_Alright, I'm assuming you've done that. So now, I want you to look up at where I used to sit.  
_

* * *

I did, and got chills all over my body. As I slowly raised my gaze from the piece of paper to the empty seat on the couch next to me, I realized that it wasn't empty—Wayne was sitting in it. And smiling at me!

I blinked a few times and gasped. Could it be true—could I really be seeing my best friend, alive again? Before I could even ask, he shook his head and pointed to the letter.

* * *

_Nah. I'm not alive. I can play a nasty joke, but not one that mean, Garth. Nope, I'm really dead._

_Pretty cool trick, though, isn't it? I was kinda worried they wouldn't let me pull that one off, so I wasn't really keen on writing the instructions in here, but I just had to say goodbye to you, and just writing the typical, obligatory suicide note just seemed so unlike me, y'know?_

* * *

I looked up at him again. He was still sitting there, calmly yet inquisitively, with one leg crossed over the other and his arms crossed, as if waiting for me to ask him something. So many questions were swimming through my mind, but only one made it into the silent, stuffy air.

"Why?" I whispered softly. He gave me a bit of a sad smile and again pointed to the letter. But I ignored him as something else struck me.

"Can…can you speak?" I asked him. He shook his head at me, so I lowered my gaze back to the letter.

* * *

_Garth, please don't blame yourself ('cause I know you will, bud), and Cassandra shouldn't blame herself either. It was neither of your faults that I'm doing this…it's my own fault, that I wasn't tough enough to keep strong during my own personal hell._

_I'm so sorry I called you a gimp, Garth…I was just really pissed off at you, but when you said what you did about my show…damn, that really surprised me—I didn't think you had it in you, man!_

_Anyways, I suppose this is just to say goodbye. I know that in the movies these things always end better, but I don't have a better ending for this, except just to say…  
_

_Party on, Garth._

_Wayne_

* * *

I looked up at Wayne's ghost and wondered why he looked so blurry. Then it hit me that he wasn't blurry—I was crying. Damn, I had promised myself that I wouldn't cry.

"Damn you," I muttered, wiping my eyes and pushing my glasses up my face in the process. "Damn you Wayne Campbell, you actually got me _crying_!"

I looked at him again and saw that he was laughing. I couldn't hear him, but I could tell that he was laughing at me.

A strange feeling overcame me, and though I knew somehow that I couldn't, I had to—I wrapped my arms tightly around Wayne. It felt like I was actually hugging him—like he was real and had substance. It got stranger when I felt his arms wrapping around me, too—but the weirdest part was when I heard his voice again. He gave a soft chuckle before speaking.

"You know, man, if you're looking for someone to hook up with, I think Terry's available."

"I'm not gay!" I said, pulling away. My breath caught in my throat as I looked Wayne up and down, realizing that…he _was_ real.

"Wayne," I said softly. "You're…you're alive…"

"Not technically, my man," he said. "I'm actually borrowing time."

"Time? From who? And what do you mean?"

"Um, how can I explain this quickly?" he sighed, putting his head into his hand. He clicked his tongue against his teeth before speaking. "Our life force as humans is called 'time'. You know how someone says 'their time has come', and it means they've died?" I nodded and he continued. "Well, I'm actually borrowing some life force from you—and though it's corny, your life force kind of gave, well, _life_ to my ghost, so that's why I can speak to you now. Hope you don't mind that I borrowed your life force."

"Of course not," I blurted quickly. He gave me a soft smile, and instantly I felt peaceful—and lucky. I now had a second chance to say what I had longed to say since I had gone to bed last night.

"I'm so sorry," I whispered. He gave another soft chuckle.

"_I'm_ sorry, man," he said quietly. "And I wish I could take it back, but I can't…"

"I wish I would've called you before I went to bed," I muttered through a broken voice, wiping my tears with shaking hands. "Maybe…maybe I could've stopped you…"

"Is that what you're upset about?" he asked me. I nodded, unable to speak. "Aw, Garth, I called you at about one-thirty in the morning…you got home around two, right?" Again I nodded. "I ended up hailing a cab and getting home way before you did…you must've driven around for a while or something."

This is true. I had been trying to calm down, so I just drove for a while. I now wanted to kick myself—if I hadn't done that, I could've saved Wayne's life!

"Garth, dude…little Bohemian bro," Wayne said, as if he was reading my mind. "Even if you had gone straight home, it wouldn't have done you any good…I left the airport about half-an-hour before you and started writing the notes the instant I got in the door. Then I went downstairs and I—"

"No, don't tell me," I begged him. "I don't think I could take it…"

"I understand," he said. "I've gotta wrap it up, anyways…I've already borrowed too much of your time."

We spoke no more as I gave him one last hug—I don't think he minded. Under normal circumstances, he might have, but things were different. I didn't even notice when he disappeared…one moment I was hugging my best friend goodbye, and the next moment I opened my eyes and realized he was gone.

With shaking hands and damp eyes, I took one last look at the letter. There was a P.S.—was it even there before?

* * *

_P.S.—check under the cushions again!_

* * *

When I did, I realized that Wayne's hat was beneath the cushion of his couch. My tears flooded over as I held it close to me, allowing myself to grieve over the suicide of my best friend.

* * *

That was around ten years ago.

Cassandra, after I had given her Wayne's letter for her, gave me her phone number and told me that I could call her anytime I wanted to, that she would always be there for me. I would've liked to do the same for her, but I didn't stay in Aurora, so I didn't have a permanent number.

Out of Wayne and me, I was always the likely candidate to stay in Aurora, but ironically, I was the one of us that left, and it was because of Wayne's death that I did. I knew I would never be able to stay there after seeing him in his basement. It would just be too real…so to speak.

I ended up becoming a drummer for a band…we weren't too famous; none of us even remembered our own band name. We just called ourselves whatever the audience called us. Usually that was "Get the hell off the stage!" or something to that effect. Of course, I'm only counting the nights we actually had an audience. I didn't do too terribly as a drummer, but my heart just wasn't in it, especially when we'd try to play Stairway to Heaven…I don't know if Wayne ever got to play that on his guitar. Every time he started to play the first few notes in the store, he'd get stopped by the clerk—Wayne never paid attention to the large sign that said "NO STAIRWAY".

I called Cassandra once or twice a month for the next few years, but she became increasingly famous and didn't have time for me. I understood, though, and actually ran into her a few times while touring. This was before all of life went to hell.

Even all those years later—I think we were up to eight or nine years afterwards by now—Wayne's suicide had still left me shaken. Badly. Needless to say, our band eventually broke up and we all scattered to different parts of the country. I actually ended up in jail—me, Garth Algar, in jail!—for a few months on a minor offense of attacking someone who said that I had killed Wayne myself to get him out of the way. I felt that I wanted to kill the guy who said it…all I remember was lunging at him, and the rest is a blank…but it wasn't until the cops pushed my face into the ground and locked handcuffs on my wrists that I realized what I had done. The other guy was alright, just shaken as hell. He didn't want to bother with the whole legal system, but ended up pressing charges anyways.

When I got out of jail, it was March. I didn't know the exact date, but I didn't care. I just knew I had to get back to Aurora as soon as possible. I knew that I had been held in a prison in Minnesota somewhere, and Illinois was just a state or two southeast.

I alternated between hitchhiking and walking for the next few days. A few of those guys that picked me up in their car tried to mug me—or kill me—but then just kicked me out when they realized that I didn't have anything worth stealing…all I had was my letter from Wayne, Cassandra's number, and Wayne's hat that I always wore. They had taken all those from me when I was arrested, but the day I was released, I got them back. I think someone read the letter and understood just what those three pieces from my former life meant to me.

* * *

The day I finally reached Illinois, I grabbed a bus to Aurora, touching the soil of my hometown for the first time in nearly ten years.

Aurora had looked better. It was the dead of winter, and most places I remembered were closed…Stan Mikita's, Gasworks…all of the places that meant the most to me from my years here. Despite the fact that it was closed, I decided to go and sit for a while in Stan Mikita's Donut shop.

The idea hit me when I was sitting in there…even Glen, the sociopath manager, was gone. Supposedly he had packed up and left for good. I guess I could kind of credit the idea partially to his psychotic-ness. To understand what I mean, you've gotta know that I had snapped by this point. I was completely detached from the rest of the world, longing for the days when Wayne and I could just go out and do whatever we wanted.

But those days were gone.

Along with his life, Wayne had taken my spirit.

I suppose by now you're thinking I'm insanely pathetic…but you've got to understand this. Wayne and I had been friends since I was five and he was six. I had known him more than thirteen years when he killed himself. I was eighteen and he was nineteen…we had just graduated high school and were looking forward to a fun summer of screwing around.

And then we had screwed up really badly. And he ended it all for himself.

My eyes lit up as I rose and left Stan Mikita's. After mulling over it for a long while in jail, I had remembered that Wayne's father had kept a gun in the house somewhere, and that was probably how Wayne had killed himself. I didn't know exactly where it would be, and I didn't know how to get into the house without being noticed.

But then I remembered that one time, when I was at Wayne's house—I think he was eleven and I was ten—he had showed me his secret "escape" out of the house by climbing through the basement window.

* * *

"_I'm always gonna leave this window unlocked, Garth!" Wayne declared, reaching for the window._

_"Why? Wayne, that's insane—you could be killed! Don't leave it unlocked, please!" I knew that he slept in the basement and the thought of anything happening to my eleven-year-old best friend was enough to, even at that young age, scare the hell out of me. I quickly released his foot that I was holding onto to nervously adjust my glasses._

_"I'm leaving it unlocked so you can come and go as you want to, duh!" he said, laughing at me and stretching his legs further from his vantage point of my shoulders. Wayne stumbled a bit. "Garth! Get your hand back on my foot!" He was attempting to open the window, but his legs just weren't long enough, and I was just a little too short for it to work. He managed to pop the window open before we had collapsed on top of each other in a laughing heap._

* * *

I realized, as I slipped through the window with minimal problems, that his parents probably hadn't been down here in years. It looked exactly the same as it did the last time I had been here, when I saw Wayne on the day of his funeral. Heh, that still sounds weird every time I say it.

Finding the gun didn't take me too long—it was hidden among the books on the bookshelves. I guess his parents—which one had really found him dead?—had just wanted to get the weapon the hell out of their sight. They had just shoved it onto the bookshelf and never thought about it again.

Can you blame them?

As I examined it, I wondered to myself if this really was what I wanted to do. But though it appeared that I was having doubts, I knew deep down that this was what I was going to do—it was what I had unconsciously decided ten years ago.

_Now, Garth,_ I told myself, fingering the faded scrap of paper in my pocket, _there's just one more thing to do tomorrow._

I took a glance around the room and knew that I needed a warm place to sleep for the night—granted, it wasn't exactly seventy degrees down there or anything, but it was warmer than outside.

As I curled up on the couch, it occurred to me that I hadn't slept over at Wayne's house since I was about twelve.

* * *

Thankfully, the payphone was one thing that still worked. I pulled out the worn, faded scrap of paper that I had been carrying for ten years, but hadn't used in nearly five. With a calm front, I dialed the number as I pulled my threadbare windbreaker around me, feebly trying to protect myself against the biting March winter winds.

"Hello?"

Her voice still hadn't changed, even after all these years.

"Cassandra? Is that you?" I asked. There was about a five-second pause.

"Garth?" she whispered. "Garth Algar?"

"Uh-huh," I said with a smile. "It's me."

"How are you?" Cassandra asked excitedly. "Oh my God, I haven't talked to you in _years_! Hey, you should come over today, I'm actually in Aurora in the hotel, and I have some spare time—"

"Cassandra, I can't," I said gently, breaking her off. "I just wanted to call and say goodbye."

There was another pause. "What do you mean, Garth?"

"I'm going to go see Wayne."

Another pause, but then she laughed a little. Her laugh held no pleasantness that I remembered about her—it was all hysteria as she tried to keep herself under control. "Oh, I understand," she said. "You're in town, so you're going to go visit his grave! I got it!"

"No, Cassandra," I said, more firmly. "I'm not going to go visit his grave."

"I'm confused, Garth," she said, and I could hear, not bewilderment, but sorrow, in her voice. "Please help me understand—"

"Goodbye, Cassandra," I said softly, hanging up.

She understood—I knew she did. She just wished with all her heart that she didn't.

* * *

I gently pushed open the rusted and creaky gates to the cemetery, which squeaked and squawked just as badly as I remembered. I cringed, knowing that nobody had been here to oil it since Wayne had died—those damn gates had _still_ been that horrid while he was alive. It had been nearly ten years, so I wasn't quite sure that I'd remember where he was buried.

I guess the place where your best friend's buried doesn't leave you easily, though.

I found it within five minutes and knelt in front of the gravestone. Using my bare, numb hand, I softly brushed away the still-falling snow and read his name: Wayne Campbell. The dates were inconsequential and I didn't even bother brushing them off.

I couldn't ever really explain why his death had shaken me so much, and why it still affected me, ten years later.

During my stint in the Minnesota prison, though, I had had time to think about it, and I believe I had found my answer as to why Wayne's death still felt like a raw wound. It was because he was my best friend, and I had thought he was immortal. It was impossible for Wayne Campbell to die, because he was a party animal. Party animals are made to party, and to live. He had always been trying to get me to drink a little, and have a little fun, but it just wasn't my thing. Nobody played that scene as well as Wayne.

Wayne Campbell had been immortal.

Not so for Garth Algar.

Everyone was expecting me to die having had having a perfect life. But I never got the chance—by all technicalities, I had died ten years ago, the moment that Officer Koharski had told me that he had "bad news" for me.

He didn't bring me bad news. He had brought me my death sentence.

I pulled the gun out of my pocket and fondled it gently, again wondering if what I was going to do was really best. I watched the snow fall onto it and melt immediately, the gun still warm from being in my pocket. I reached into my left pocket and pulled out one ice-cold bullet.

One.

That was all Wayne had left me. That was all I needed.

My decision was made.

I loaded the gun and cocked it. At that moment, I heard the gates to the cemetery swing open and high heels moving very quickly, nearly at a running speed. I spared a quick glance over my shoulder and saw Cassandra, looking exactly the same as I remembered her, but with white flakes of snow standing out brightly against her dark hair. She was running through the cemetery, breathing hard, scanning every row of tombstones. I knew she was looking for me, and I'd have to hurry—it wouldn't be long before she would see me.

I quickly pressed the gun to my head. Cassandra screamed my name—damn, she hadn't given me much time, had she?—and I knew I had about 10 seconds to finish. A small smile played on my lips as I saw myself hugging Wayne the day he had died, and I remembered his final parting words from the letter he had written for me.

"_Party on, Garth."_

"Party on, Wayne," I murmured, and my smile grew as I pulled the trigger.


End file.
